


But if you close your eyes

by NathalieWeasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathalieWeasley/pseuds/NathalieWeasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The edges of Gabrielle and Paris blur, until Pansy is no longer sure which one is her escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But if you close your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



> Much thanks to the mods and my brilliant beta amorette. Title of the fic comes from the Pompeii by Bastille. 
> 
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Pansy moves to Paris after the war. She can deal with the looks on the street and the letter informing her she is not welcome into the university Charms correspondence course, but once she gets denied entrance to the new posh restaurant on Diagon Alley, she is over it. She is not going to apologize for having her own beliefs, for thinking that tradition and purity is something worth protecting. Sure, the Dark Lord had rather violent tendencies and had she been in charge, she would have gone about everything rather differently, but he certainly had the right idea of lauding wizarding traditions and appreciating a certain purity of blood. She never advocated for euthanasia or preventing Muggle-borns from entering society, but thinks there needs to be a line, some sort of directive that Muggle ways will not pervade into the sanctity of Diagon Alley or Hogwarts or any other centre of Wizarding life. Perhaps France will be better for establishing the sort of life she wants.

\--

That she ends up in Muggle Paris is ironic even to her. Let them live how they will, she has no problem with that. She appreciates the coffee and markets and, Merlin, the Galeries Lafayette are _divine_ , but she doesn’t want all the Muggles traipsing after her as she enters the French Ministry to have her visa processed.

\--

She picks up a baguette on her way to the jardin du Luxembourg, nibbling bites off the end as she manoeuvres the streets of the Quartier latin. The sun is high in the sky, the breeze is cool, and the multitudes of people appreciating the weather alongside her don’t give her a second glance as she pulls a metal chaise across the pebbles, angling it perfectly to prevent the sun from shining directly into her eyes.

There are an inordinate number of children in the garden, gathered around the fountain in the centre. Fifty or more tiny sailboats float around the water, sails billowing in the breeze, traversing the water to the delight of the children. The sails are multi-coloured, and Pansy realizes that each boat sports the flag of a different country. Her eyes glance over the bright greens, yellows, and blues of the Brazil boat, the red and white of the Japanese, before settling on the bright stripes of red, white, and blue on the English flag. She swallows heavily. Despite her move being solely her choice, she misses England. England is where she was raised, and her heart aches for _home_.

\--

Pansy runs into Gabrielle Delacour after she has been in Paris for two weeks. She has stuck to the sixth arrondissement for the most part, learning the streets around her, shopping at Mango and Pimkie and the Galeries, chatting with the bartender over an espresso at the café on the corner. But tonight she wants to go out. She takes the line 4 of the métro from Montparnasse-Bienvenüe to Châtelet and walks the two blocks to HIDEOUT, an Irish pub tucked between a shwarma stand and a gay club. She’ll check out the club another time to see if there are any girls actually interested in girls, versus those who tag along after their gay friends, giggling and whispering to each other.

\--

After two beers, Pansy manoeuvres down the tiny staircase to the dance floor below. The room is cramped, stone walls enclosing the packed crowd with barely any room to breathe, but the music from the deejay’s booth washes over her and she moves languidly to edge of the throng, hips swaying to the bass she can _feel_ around her.

The flash of light, silken hair is startling in the dark room. After a second glance (the girl is _gorgeous_ ), Pansy realizes that she might actually _know_ this girl. The nose is slimmer, the eyes just a touch more blue, and she is about half a foot shorter than the sister she trailed after during Pansy’s fourth year, but Pansy can easily see in this girl, far removed from youth, the fierce beauty of Fleur Delacour as she surveyed the Great Hall before Pansy had been escorted away along with the rest of Slytherins. That memory is one refuge in the bitterness she feels over the Battle. Her attraction to Fleur had not wavered in the face of their opposing sides. Beauty is beauty.

Gabrielle seems to recognize her as well, despite the severe pixie cut Pansy had her hair cut into the day she arrived in Paris. She slowly walks closer, her movements through the crowd graceful despite the drunken jostling of the dancers around her. She places soft fingers on Pansy’s cheek, and slides the tips down onto Pansy’s jaw. Pansy’s eyes flutter shut. The fingers touch her lips, her ears, and, briefly, the lids of her eyes.

A whisper in her ear. “There are not many reasons why one leaves one’s home after a war, no?”

Pansy swallows hard, and the fingers follow the movement.

“Come dance with me and forget.”

Pansy opens her eyes and nods. She raises a hand to Gabrielle’s and laces their fingers together. They slip to the centre of the dance floor, and Gabrielle pulls Pansy’ close, twining their hips together. They move together, perfectly, and Pansy shuts her eyes to those around them, her world concentrated on the movements of Gabrielle’s hips and the bass she still feels thrumming through her.

\--

The streets are quiet as they leave the bar, marred only by the shouts of others making their way out from the bar or from the club next door.

Gabrielle pulls her along the rue des Lombards, though Pansy knows the métro won’t start running until six, another hour or so away. “The night bus…” she starts.

Gabrielle smiles. “The Noctilien does not run at this hour. Come, we can wait in the station.”

The quiet of the corridors in the station is surreal. Instead of the typical cacophony of noise Pansy always hears when she passes through a métro station, no one is here, and all Pansy can hear is her footsteps and those of Gabrielle. The quick clips of their heels are perfectly in sync, echoing around the curved corridors as they approach the empty platform of line 1.

“Let me take you home.” Gabriele had whispered at the club, and Pansy’s “Yes” had been the first word she’d uttered to Gabrielle.

The curved domes of the hallways fade into the expanse of the platform. Pansy sits heavily and watches Gabrielle. The image is so surreal, yet so beautiful. Gabrielle is draped in the plastic orange chair, pale skin and blonde hair blending in with the all-encompassing white of platform. The edges of Gabrielle and Paris blur, until Pansy is no longer sure which one is her escape.

They sit in silence for the next hour, Pansy’s legs draped over Gabrielle’s, and Gabrielle’s fingers stroking over Pansy’s calves.

\--

The Arc de triomphe glows beautifully from the end of the avenue des Champs-Élysées as Gabrielle and Pansy turn onto avenue George-V. Though only having three rooms (or compartments of a single room) compared to the multitude within the lavishly furnished flat taking up an entire floor at 2 boulevard du Montparnasse which Pansy occupies, Gabrielle’s flat has beautiful crown moulding, a small balcony at the front, and a mirrors covering an entire wall.

Gabrielle pulls Pansy to the bed.

\--

Gabrielle stands on the balcony, glass of wine in her hand, white skin illuminated only by the street lights. She is beautiful.

\--

Gabrielle lights a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. She puffs twice, smoke curling above her. The contrast between the coarse cigarette in her fingers and the sensual view she presents is striking. She lays above the crumbled sheets, unashamedly naked, small breasts, trim waist, and lean legs on display for Pansy’s viewing.

“It is just as silly to perpetuate a tradition for the sake of tradition as it is to strike out against tradition for the sake of striking out against tradition. One must always consider _why_ an action is performed, words are said, what have you. Otherwise you are a fool, regardless of your views on tradition or anything else.”

She raises the cigarette to her lips, breathing in deeply before tilting her head back to release the smoke. Pansy moves closer to her, sliding her hand up the silken skin of Gabrielle’s arm before pulling the fag from her fingers “May I?”

“As you want.” Gabrielle’s eyes darken as Pansy breathes in. She bends over for a kiss when Pansy’s lips are free.

\--

They are sprawled out across the bed, Pansy’s head resting lightly on Gabrielle’s thighs. Gabrielle licks her fingers to get at the last of the camembert and continues reading aloud from her book of poetry, her soft voice smoothing out over Pansy’s body and mind. Pansy closes her eyes and escapes.


End file.
